


Falling Heavy Into Your Arms

by hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove



Series: Better Camelate Than Never [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Blood and Gore, Canon Era, Cooking, Day 3: Wait... What? It's Wednesday, Fluff, Gen, Geon - Freeform, Immortal Leon (Merlin), M/M, Post-Battle of Camlann (Merlin), Post-Canon, Trigger Warning for Dead Animals, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 10:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30020067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove/pseuds/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove
Summary: Leon wants to propose.Problem? Popping the question would cause George to crumble under the pressure of wedding arrangements, and the stress of getting everything to bejust so.Solution? Don't tell him about the wedding.Simple, right?
Relationships: George/Leon (Merlin), Gwen & Leon (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Leon & Audrey, Leon & Merlin (Merlin)
Series: Better Camelate Than Never [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209551
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7
Collections: Camelove 2021





	Falling Heavy Into Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpiritWorld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritWorld/gifts).



> So. _So._
> 
> Inspired by this [Tumblr post](https://meteorjam.tumblr.com/post/625286436563927040/george-headcanons) and other headcanons by Meteorjam, my fingers started slapping away at the keyboard and this is the result. 
> 
> Naomi, I truly hope you approve.

To call George a stress-case would be akin to calling the ocean a puddle. 

Putting George in charge of planning any sort of event, similarly, was like stepping into a deceptively crossable body of water, expecting no more disaster than, perhaps, a wet sock, only to plunge into the unforgiving depths of The Great Seas Of Meredor, where hazards included drowning, prehistoric, carnivorous sea monsters and an abandoned Isle associated with rituals of blood sacrifice. 

In short, painful for everyone involved. 

This is why, when Leon comes to the should-be-happy conclusion that he wants to ask George to marry him, most of what he feels is dread. 

Most, because the other emotion is resigned exasperation at the sight of a bag of coins being passed from Merlin’s hand to Gwen’s. 

The esteemed Queen of Camelot, Renowned Warrior and co-chair of the Council of Magic and Non-Magic Negotiations, grins smugly as she takes her winnings. 

“I bet this really stings your pride, doesn’t it?” 

Camelot’s Court Sorcerer, Patron Saint of The Druids, Trusted Advisor to the Queen and Literal Embodiment of Magic, crosses his arms across his chest and pouts. 

“I know better than to bet with you again, thanks.” 

“No, you don’t. We’re still waiting on Erica from the kitchens to confess her love for Lysander from the stables, and Lysander to confess that he’s the one stealing the cattle from the slaughterhouses and hiding them in her neighbour’s garden who, by the way, he is  _ definitely _ sleeping with and it was frankly imbecilic of you to bet otherwise on that one.” 

“Oi, Lysander is _ not _ sleeping with Richard, because I know for a  _ fact _ that he’s engaged to Old Henrietta from the morgue...” 

Leon’s eyes flick back and forth between the two children collectively holding the weight of the entire Kingdom on their shoulders, and sighs. He didn’t exactly _ not  _ expect this reaction - he’s known Gwen and Merlin far too long not to (too long in general, he’d like to argue) - but it’s irking all the same. 

He takes a sip from his goblet, tuning out the woefully familiar tit-for-tat, and ponders his conundrum. 

He and George have been together for nearly a decade. Their relationship had begun on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday, a comfortable way into Arthur and Gwen’s joint reign, just a few days before Yule. Snow had dusted the rooftops, windows lit by candlelight, the whole scene appearing to Leon like a batch of floured buns, studded with golden sultanas and peel, sitting squat and warm in Audrey’s bread oven. Everything felt homey and safe, the air that filled the castle soft and sweetly spiced. 

George’s face had glowed, adorably sheepish enough that even Leon, who had stuttered and bluffed his way out of initiating a courtship out of his own awkwardness for several months leading up to that moment, was bolstered enough to ask him on a date. He’d planned it for the next evening, and it had gone well. Very well. At the end of the night, they’d agreed to another one. 

One, which George had offered to organise. 

Jump three weeks later to find Leon, standing in the doorway to the servant’s chambers, staring at the image of George lying atop a made bed, looking like he’d slumped sideways while sitting up, having accidentally passed out there. A picnic basket had sat beside him and a novel’s-worth of parchment had been scattered around the room like the debris of a storm. Leon had picked one up and scanned the title:  _ Second official date with Sir Leon: Picnic in the Barracks. _ The rest of the page was a myriad of half-scratched-out but somehow still perfectly neat bullet points, detailing George’s apparent plans for their evening, ranging from what George should wear, to what George should say, to what George  _ shouldn’t _ say, to what George should bring to eat, to whether or not Sir Leon would even be in the _ mood _ to eat, to - under the assumption that Sir Leon _was_ in the mood to eat - if he was allergic and/or would be deeply offended by the presence of a certain food item and so on and so forth to the point where Leon could feel a headache coming on just reading it. A quick glimpse at the other sheets proved that they all followed a similar thread. 

A part of him had been relieved; he’d initially thought George had stood him up when he hadn't met him at the base of the Northern Tower at their agreed time, and had faffed there for a while, debating whether or not he’d even wanted to ask why George hadn’t turned up, or whether he just wanted to head to the Physician’s chambers in hopes that Merlin would irritate him enough to distract him from his heartbreak. He was, secondly, concerned. He was glad that he  _ had  _ decided on the former, because it was obvious that George  _ had _ in fact intended to turn up, had it not been for what had clearly been a bit of a breakdown.

Apparently, as he’d learnt when George woke with a start, saw him and then crumpled defeatedly into Leon’s opened arms, he’d worked himself into fit over getting the date _ just right _ for Leon, to the point where he hadn’t slept a wink in three weeks, had gotten himself banned from the kitchens for the next month, and had probably prompted the guards of the Northern Tower to contemplate his murder after sending them away to give himself and Leon privacy, before calling them back to act as security, before sending them away because Leon was a knight and therefore qualified as sufficient security already, before calling them back because Leon was going to be off-duty which meant he would be unarmed and he didn’t have a clue how good Leon’s hand-to-hand combat was-

Leon had shushed him, patting him gently on the back, and had asked if he should take over date planning from then on. George had morosely nodded against Leon’s tunic, before falling back asleep barely a second later. 

For the next ten years, Leon was in charge of planning every single date they went on. He’d always been more of a go-with-the-flow kind of person (“the flow” for the most part being bratty royals, bratty knights or a bratty Merlin) so his “plans” tended to consist of a vague idea such as “he’ll probably appreciate the brassware auction happening next week” which would then be dotted with a few spontaneous detours, a gift when he’d found something that reminded him of George, and almost always, food. 

While nothing so detailed as the plans Leon had spied on that meant-to-be-second-date, it was more for the fact that Leon knew that having someone else take the reins was a massive weight off of George’s mind - the man was already so busy, having been promoted to steward about eight years into their courtship, and Leon, comparatively, had rather a lot of free time, and was happy to do this for his partner if it gave him peace. 

He tunes back into the present just in time to catch the tail end of his companions discussing the terms of a new bet - this time about the likelihood of Old Henrietta from the morgue actually being the masked bard from The Rising Sun who exclusively sings about the late King Uther and his apparent sordid romance with the dragon he’d kept chained under the castle. 

“-just saying, it’s pretty obvious that the Kilghuther Caroller isn’t from Camelot - have you noticed that they always turn up around the same time as those cheese sellers from Gawant do?” 

“Those cheese sellers are there every other week, Merlin.”

“And so is the Caroller! It cannot be a coincidence!”

“You’re just seeing what you want to see.”

“I’m seeing what’s there,  _ Gwen _ .” 

“Oh, because you have  _ such _ a good track record with Seeing things,  _ idiot. _ ” 

“Low blow, Guinevere. I’ll forgive you though, just 'cause I know you’re only cranky because you’re _ wrong _ about Henrietta and Lysander being secretly engaged.” 

“I swear, you are going to have a  _ banquet _ of your words-”

“Minor suggestion,” Leon cuts in, “but could we perhaps discuss my engagement with George rather than the mortician’s supposed one?” 

“Oh, sorry, Leon,” Gwen says, she and Merlin turning to him with an apologetic smile and a shit-eating grin respectively. “Do go on.” 

Leon nods. He laces his fingers together on the table in front of him. He unlaces them and lets his hands fall to his lap. 

“...Right,” he begins eloquently. “Well. I’m going to propose...” 

“Mhmm.” 

“...But if I tell George I want to marry him, he’ll start flipping out about wedding preparations.” 

“That  _ does _ sound like George.” 

Puddles and oceans come to mind. 

“I don’t want something that’s supposed to be the happiest day of our lives tainted by an anxiety attack.” He anxiously scratches at his thigh. “I want him to be able to relax.” 

“Do something low-key,” Merlin says, shrugging languidly. 

“Oooh,” Gwen gushes, leaning forward with an excited beam, “have a cute little outdoor wedding! Just a few chairs and a decent spread of pies and sweetmeats… wildflower bouquets, of course…” 

Merlin nods, poking a thumb in her direction. “Yeah, have him plan what’s basically a glorified picnic. That’s pretty stress-free, right?” 

Leon ponders it. Thinks again of their first almost-picnic-date. He sighs and shakes his head. 

“He’ll work himself up over even that,” he mutters. “And if it’s outdoors, he’ll be practicing meteorology for months in advance, stressing over the possibility of a light drizzle.” 

Merlin scoffs, waving him off. “Pshh, you know I can make it all sunshine and literal rainbows at the flick of a wrist. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“...Somehow I think he’ll be  _ more _ stressed leaving you in charge of that.”

“Wha-”

“Mm, I have to agree. I don’t think I’d trust you not to cause a blizzard just for the hell of it.” 

Merlin shoots Gwen a betrayed look. 

“You  _ know _ I would never jeopardize you guys when it comes to overdramatic grand gestures!” 

Leon has to admit, thinking back to the events he now knows Merlin had basically orchestrated, that the warlock is not wrong. Still, this is the same Merlin who’d pulled Arthur’s breeches down in the middle of a council meeting. He’s going to take any assurance from the guy with a grain of salt. 

“Merlin, as an “overdramatic grand gesture” you set my house on fire.” 

“ _ I did n _ \- filling your house with lit candles is  _ not  _ the same as setting it on fire-” 

“It was a fire hazard.” 

“It was romantic!”

“Merlin. I lived in a cottage made of wood. On a street of cottages made of wood. In a town of streets of cottages made of  _ wood _ .”

“I-”

“You almost burned Camelot to the ground.” She looked thoughtful for a pause. “Again.” Merlin splutters.

“Hey- bu- the first time was Kilgharrah-”

“Oh? And who was the bumpkin who set him free?” 

“...What is this, roasting Merlin hours?” 

“Seeing as you almost roasted my citizens alive - twice - I think it’s only fair.” Gwen turns to Leon solemnly. “I think, if you want a stress-free George, it’s best we ban Merlin from making any further suggestions. I was fighting back the urge to hyperventilate the entire time Arthur was proposing, and only half of that was because Arthur was proposing.” 

Merlin drops his chin to the table, muttering to himself sulkily. Leon’s fingers are already twitching towards his temples. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says evenly. “But that doesn’t exactly help me. In fact, it does the opposite, because now I have only fifty percent of my support system available.” 

Gwen stares off to the side, lips pursed. She raps her fingers against the tabletop, lost in thought.

The silence stretches as each tries to puzzle together George, wedding plans and a happy ceremony. They don’t seem to fit. 

Just as Leon’s forehead is about to defeatedly hit the tabletop, Merlin’s head shoots up from it and his hands slam against the surface. 

“Don’t listen to Gwen,” he demands (he ignores Gwen’s hiss of “ _ treason _ ”). “Because I have an  _ idea _ .” 

Leon, rubbing the spot where his heart is currently beating a startled bruise, looks to him in interest. Merlin grins back. “What if you don’t tell George about the wedding?” 

The interest turns to bafflement. Leon doesn’t have to look at Gwen to know that she mirrors him.

“Merlin,” Leon says slowly, “You do realise that George will have to know he’s getting married in order for us to get married?” 

“I’m not done,” Merlin whips out, flapping a hand at Leon. It’s close enough that it knocks Leon’s nose. (The warlock doesn’t  _ look  _ like he notices, but again; grain of salt.) “Trust me, I know a lot about planning things behind the scenes, and if you can pull off organising an entire wedding for George  _ before  _ the proposal…” Leon feels his eyes widening. 

“By the time I ask him, I could have everything sorted for us  _ already. _ ”

“Isn’t that a little presumptuous?” Gwen asks, brow furrowed. “Not that I don’t think he’ll say yes, but… would he be annoyed at you for going behind his back? Wouldn’t that be a breach of trust?” 

Leon doesn’t miss the slight flinch from Merlin. He gently nudges Merlin’s foot with his beneath the table. 

“I don’t think he’d mind,” Leon says slowly. “I organise all our dates, remember? And... I like to think I know him well enough by now that what I come up with will appeal to him, too.” 

“I don’t doubt that you could, but he wouldn’t get a choice in the matter at all.” 

“He would,” Leon assures. He thinks for a moment. “If he says yes, I could give him the plan for him to look over, and he could make any suggestions he wanted.” 

And if he says no… well, Leon figures that the wedding band could still provide a pretty decent setlist for his ensuing pity party. 

Gwen frowns as she says “I guess... But even before you reach that point, it’ll be incredibly difficult to keep all preparation from him when his job is to oversee all activity within the castle.” She shares a look with Merlin. “Especially since he used to be a servant.” 

“Eyes and ears of the castle,” Merlin agrees solemnly. “I know  _ way _ more about so many of the nobles I now rub elbows with than  _ anyone _ could ever want to.” 

Leon decides not to ask about the dirt his friends may or may not have on him.

“Do you think we could ask everyone else to keep it quiet from him?”

Gwen hums thoughtfully. 

“You could,” she says, “we’re very good at discretion when it’s needed.” 

“You could just pass a law that forbids anyone from mentioning the words “wedding preparation”.” 

“Merlin, I’m not going to execute anyone for snitching.” 

“Like you haven’t done it before.” 

“There is a  _ huge _ difference between revealing potentially fatal information about the king to a feral Morgana and letting slip about an upcoming wedding.  _ Huge _ .” 

“Why did your mind jump to execution anyway? I was just going to suggest the stocks.” 

“I can’t send them to the stocks.” 

“Why not?” 

“Where would I put  _ you _ when you start getting on my nerves if your spot is taken?”

“Okay, between execution for the mildest of annoyances and wanting to send me to the stocks willy nilly, you’re really fitting the role of a Pendragon.” 

“You take that _ back! _ ”

“Gwen,” Leon interrupts (again), “You took on the Pendragon name when you married into the family.” 

“Leon, this is treason.” 

Leon wonders, briefly, if it’s possible to make headaches worse by over-massaging one's temple. He stands, not bothering to excuse himself, because Merlin and Gwen are once again too engrossed in their bickering like the teenagers they were back when they first met. It was a simpler time, and one that Leon misses dearly, and the fact that the only thing he has left of it is his friends’ stunted maturity level is something he curses the universe at large for almost daily. He slams the door on the way out, because he thinks he deserves to be at least a little petty, and stalks down the hall. 

When he opens the door to their shared chambers to find George sprawled in his day clothes across the top of their covers, fast asleep, in a mirror of their meant-to-be-second-date, his peevishness is swept away and he’s left feeling as gooey and warm as one of Audrey’s jam tarts. 

The jammy feeling is promptly doused by his next realisation. He groans.

He is  _ not _ looking forward to asking for George’s mother’s blessing. 

* * *

_ CHOP _

Leon eyes the knife in Audrey’s hand warily. 

“Erm.” He clears his throat. “So as I was saying-” 

_ CHOP _

Audrey pins him with a stare as she slices through the chicken’s neck. Leon gulps. “I, er. Obviously, I love your son very dearly-”

_ CHOP _

He shuffles backwards slightly and silently curses his partner for having the scariest mother in the Five Kingdoms. While it’s not as though he doesn’t  _ like _ Audrey - her cooking has genuinely become a substitute for therapy at this point - he’d be lying if he said he didn’t dive into alcoves to hide every time he sees her around the castle. 

As it stands, he’s never, in the ten years he’s dated her son, had more than a five minute conversation with her. 

And now he’s asking for her to give him her only child and rustle up a mahoosive feast for said giving-away ceremony. And then keep all it a secret from said child. 

He has the slightest feeling that he’s asking a bit much of her, but why not kill two birds with one stone? 

_ CHOP _

He glances down at the giblets spilling from the killed bird under Audrey’s knife and thinks he has his answer. Regardless, he continues bugging his future mother-in-law, because his usually-irritating inability to die has sort of rid him of any self-preservation instincts he may have had left. 

He’ll just come out and say it.

“Head Chef Audrey, I’ve come to ask for your blessing to marry a large-ish roasted boar and your son for the feast.” 

That… did not come out right. 

_ CHOP _

Audrey narrows her eyes at him. He sweats under her gaze for several year-long minutes. 

“You want me to cook for my son’s wedding?” 

“...If you’re willing?” 

_ CHOP _

“...Is that a yes?” 

The knife is slams against the counter. Audrey turns to face him fully, crossing her beefy arms across her chest, not bothering to wipe the blood from her hands. Her expression is pure stone. 

“What makes you think you’re good enough for my George?” 

Leon flounders slightly at the question. What  _ does _ make him good enough for George? 

_ Not bloody well much _ , says the gloomy (prominent) part of his brain. 

“I mean, I-” He clears his throat. “I can give you my credentials, if you’d like, and I do come quite highly recommended by three separate Monarchs of Camelot…” 

He trails off when Audrey fails to look impressed. She grabs the bloody knife, and for one petrifying moment Leon thinks he’s going to get stabbed (that would be a no to the blessing, right?), but then the knife is pushed flat to his chest, causing him to stumble backwards a couple of steps. He looks, warily, between it and Audrey, and then takes it by the handle. Audrey releases it, and backs away to  _ lean  _ over the counter and  _ sweep _ all of the chicken bits to the side. 

Then she’s setting a bowl on the counter (Leon can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the appalling hygiene, but schools his expression when Audrey’s gaze lands on him) and is saying: 

“If you want me to let you marry my Georgie, you’re gonna prove your worth to me. I’m not having you let him do all the dirty work just because you’re used to being all hoity toity and twiddling your delicate little toes. Now-” She pulls a rolling pin from her apron pocket and slaps it rhythmically against her meaty palm. “Time to show me what you’re made of, Posh boy.” 


End file.
